


I'm Sorry (Leave Me Be)

by PersonyPepper



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Caring Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, First Dates, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Being an Idiot, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Being an Idiot, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Miscommunication, Near Death Experiences, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Sad Jaskier | Dandelion, Sharing Clothes, for j, i was told this is both funny and angsty and i live for that lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:09:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25791871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonyPepper/pseuds/PersonyPepper
Summary: The water splashes against the walls of the tub as he grips the wood— he splutters as his head’s dunked into the water.“Geralt?” There’s an edge of hysteria to his voice, his stomach tight as his hair drips. “If you wanted me dead, should’ve just left me back in the—”Geralt of Rivia is washing my hair.“No.” His voice is so resolute as he rakes his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and works a lather into it.Geralt, who’d wished him away with such harsh, vile words, spitting in anger as he’d pinned every wrongdoing on Jaskier’s shoulders. Geralt, who’d ignored his inquiries, hated on his songs, told him he’s a good for nothing peacock— it just makes no sense, does it?Or, Geralt's nice to Jaskier after the mountain, Jaskier thinks he's dying, and Ciri thinks they're both idiots.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 64
Kudos: 921





	I'm Sorry (Leave Me Be)

It’s achingly cold.

Correction, it was achingly cold. He’s just numb now. His doublet doesn’t do much against the mountain’s chill.

Snow crunches under his feet, footsteps turning pinks and reds. At least his outfit is red, too, easier to hide the bloodstains, he thinks madly.

Just a rest— oh, this here’s a nice clearing; a couple minutes of sitting down never hurt anybody, did it? He sets his lute against the gnarled roots of an old tree— at least it’s immune to the weather. If not him, his songs and music live on.

Lute, too if it’s not crushed by the monsters in the woods— a roar echoes through the forest and Jaskier wonders with a wry smile if Geralt’s off fighting it, wonders if it’ll make a good song.

Shame he won’t be able to write anymore.

At least he’s left a legacy. Songs by the great Master Bard Jaskier— _oh, look at him._ If he could talk to that boy in Posada, blue eyes filled with hope, curiosity, and life, he’d tell tell him that it’s worth it; that it’s worth following that broody witcher, even if he leaves you without note, forgets you to be human and pushes you without rest. It’s worth it, for the song. 

_It’s worth it to love him, too. For he’s the greatest, bravest muse you’ve ever laid eyes on, worthy of the most magnificent songs you’ll write, young Jaskier, even if he hates them so._

He settles against the snow, soft against his back as he looks up at the sky. How blue it is. How many days he’s seen it, darken and lighten? Oh, that endless blue, he could watch it forever.

Trees look down at him, wind whistling, ruffling his hair like his mother had done when he was but a boy.

Life has been good to him; allowed him to see flowers bloom and wilt, listen to trees shed their leaves and watch first snows in wonderment. Life has let him play in the world She created, running through town squares, a song on his lip, lute thumping against his back—

But above all, She gave him a purpose, and that’s all he could have tuly asked for. 

Even if he did utterly fail, brought upon all the evils in his friend’s life rather than soothe his pains.

The snow grows wet with his blood, sinking into the dirt. _A little more time,_ he begs of Melitele, _let me watch the clouds pass, just for a little longer. Let me remember, just for a little longer._

Death calls out to him like a loving brother, waiting to reminisce with an ale and infinite stories.

Jaskier blinks up at the sky once, twice, cherishing its shades of blue, cherishing shades of brown on the trees— and the Sun— how beautiful she is.

_Goodbye_ , he tells them, aching to press kisses to their cheek. The Sky, the Trees, the Sun. A family that’s always been there for him.

_Goodbye_.

He blinks once more, looking up at the cloudless sky, and closes his eyes.

~~

His eyes flutter as they fight to wake, blinking up at a wooden roof. He hadn’t thought he’d ever blink again. 

He can’t move, but he can feel, oh, can he feel, the brush of air against his skin, the rough blankets pulled up to his chin and that bone-deep ache that _paralyzes_ him. Jaskier wiggles his fingers, his toes, and he blinks.

“Hello.” It feels good to say _hello_ , when he’d thought he’d said his last goodbyes. His voice is raspy, but he can _talk_ , and _feel_ , and say _hello_ and oh, is it blissful to be alive. 

“Hello?” The door swings open and is closed, and the chill air bites at his skin and he smiles, he smiles at the feeling, smiles at the sound, at the anticipation of seeing another face instead of seeing black and nothing.

“Jaskier.” His heart nearly explodes at that voice, both in joy and agony. Hearing that voice again means he’s failed at the only thing his muse has ever asked of him.

_If life could give me one blessing—_

How he’d tried and oh, how he’s failed.

He has half a heart to implore Brother Death into finding him again.

“Jaskier. You’re awake.” He is, damn him, he his. “Hmm. How are… how are you feeling?” Jaskier wants to huff a laugh and cry and sob simultaneously.

“No need for small talk, Witcher,” his words are barely legible, slurred with exhaustion and raspy with sleep. “I’ll be out of your hair so—” he’s falling asleep before he can finish, to the feeling of broad hands spreading over his body, unwrapping his bandages.

~~

When he wakes, the sun’s risen, if the light from under the door anything to go by. His nose twitches; a bowl of porridge rests on a stool next to him, alongside Geralt’s water pouch. 

Jaskier turns to stare at the ceiling, marveling as his fingers twitch, bringing his hands up to his face— he can _move_.

Melitele has given him more time, but Destiny twisted Her wish and he’s now back in the hands of the very man who had ached to be rid of him.

But he remembers, all so suddenly— the feel of barghests ripping into him, the cold of blood dripping between his fingers clutched to his stomach, the numb of snow against his back— saying goodbye to his life, to the world.

He wound aches as he wails, bleeds as he sobs. Deep, exhausting fear swallows him whole as he cries, and _cries_ , _and_ _cries_.

~~

He wakes to a jostle. Many jostles, actually, and the clop of hooves.

“Jaskier?” A voice by him growls, low in his ear. Strong arms rail him on either side, holding the reins. Hideous position to find himself, caged by Geralt’s body, atop Roach.

Geralt had wished to be rid of him, and instead had found him closer. How incredibly ironic.

“Pardon me, Master Witcher, I’ve taken a great deal of your generosity— allow me to pay you back— Uhm, as soon as I find my lute, that is— and I’ll be out of your… hair.” He’s given no reply, save for a snort from Roach. “Or I can leave now, if you’d just let me do—”

“I have your lute.”

“Wonderful!” Jaskier winces at the overwhelmingly faux cheer in his voice, “If you could—” 

Geralt tenses against Jaskier’s back, bringing Roach to a halt. “I don’t want you to… leave. And you don’t have to pay me back, we’re…” he hesitates, Jaskier can tell, even as he’s faced forwards; he can practically see the crease in Geralt’s eyebrows, that frowny set of his lips when he isn’t sure— “…friends.”

Friends. Jaskier wants to laugh.

_Friends_.

Right.

He says nothing.

~~

“The water’s warm.” Floorboards creak as Geralt walks around the tub to his bag. “You should take a bath.”

If Jaskier was the man he used to be, he wouldn’t have held back the _“Oh, are you implying I smell, Geralt? Gods know how you don’t realize it’s you.”_

He’s silent as he stares at the clean bathwater, white steam rising to the ceiling. It’s odd— Geralt letting him go first, tipping bath salts and oils into the water and swirling it around before inviting Jaskier— oh, it’s odd indeed.

His bandages are soaking in a boil over the fireplace, wounds stitched. They’ll scar, but perhaps not so terribly that they’ll ache once healed.

The water is warm, rippling as he dips a toe into it before stepping in. Jaskier sinks into it, lips parting in a breathless moan as his muscles give in under the heat, relaxing into the side of the bathtub. He stares up the ceiling, blinking away tears again, heart so loud in his chest, impossibly grateful that he’s allowed to soak in a bath again, instead of laying numb, floating in nothingness.

Thick fingers tug at his hair, startling Jaskier out of his thoughts. The water splashes against the walls of the tub as he grips the wood— he splutters as his head’s dunked into the water.

“Geralt?” There’s an edge of hysteria to his voice, his stomach tight as his hair drips. “If you wanted me dead, should’ve just left me back in the—”

“ _No_.” His voice is so resolute as he rakes his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and works a lather into it.

_Geralt of Rivia is washing my hair._

Jaskier doesn’t even remember the last time someone had shown him such care; likely Aadena, the old woman who’d used to watch over him when he was but a boy. It’s usually him doing this and he’d accepted that, accepted that no one cared enough about him to wash his hair.

But now there’s _Geralt_ , massaging into his scalp before pouring water over his head, careful to keep it out of Jaskier’s face.

It makes no sense. Geralt, who’d wished him away with such harsh, _vile_ words, spitting in anger as he’d pinned every wrongdoing on Jaskier’s shoulders. Geralt, who’d ignored his inquiries, hated on his songs, told him he’s _a good for nothing peacock_ — it just makes no sense, does it?

But his hair’s rinsed out, and his body’s washed (by himself, thankfully), and— and he stands, towel wrapped around his waist, soiled clothes sent off to the maids for cleaning. His clothes are still back at that horrid camp on that mountain, fuck. 

Geralt hums, digging through his bag for something. Jaskier wiggles his toes, adoring the way the rough wood feels against his skin, the way the candle’s light drapes across the room—

“Here.” Geralt hands out a shirt to him, a black thing that looks reasonably clean.

He blinks at it.

“What's—”because _surely Geralt couldn’t be,_ “—that for?” _offering him his shirt?_

The witcher, ever a man of action, walks forward, rucking up the shirt before tugging down. Jaskier must look entirely ridiculous, arms inside the long-sleeves, floppy by his side as the too-large tunic hangs off his shoulder. At least it’s of length, ending by his upper thighs.

“Uhm… thanks?” He mutters, staring at Geralt in shock and awe, nearly slack jawed because—

_Geralt is being nice? To him?_

It’s a well-known fact to those of proper education that Geralt is a good man, but he fucking despises Jaskier, can’t stand the thought of having him in his life; yet, he’s saved him, bathed him, and _given him his clothes?_

Jaskier glances down at his stomach, where his wounds lay underneath the cloth. 

Ah.

So, he’s not quite dead, just… _dying_ , wounds impossible to treat. And Geralt’s acting as he does when sentient creatures are to die— respectful and kind.

_Fantastic_.

The numbness settles in as he sits down on the bed, head spinning.

Jaskier had once thought he’d be okay with dying, that there isn’t much for him in this world. But nearly dying once has already proven how much he’s got to live for. The sun, the sky, the trees; his music, his song; the chill of a breeze, the creak of wood— every minute fucking detail about life, he adores.

And to think he’s going to lose it all again.

His face pulls into a grimace as he leans against a bedpost— how cruel is his pain, setting his body alight, reminding him he’s _alive_ , only to kill him.

He curls into bed, ignoring amber eyes that watch him as he gets under the sheets.

“Jaskier— on the mountain—” He can’t do this now, can’t take being told he’s a failure, a bringer of curses and ill luck, a _shitty_ fucking travel companion and an even worse friend, not when he’s just figured out that he’s still kissing at Brother Death’s boots.

“ _Goodnight_ , Geralt.”

Neither of them sleep that night.

They find his child surprise but two days later, and Jaskier watches, happiness bright in his chest as she and Geralt run towards each other.

Even if neither of them have examples of what a good parent should be, he can tell Geralt will be an excellent one.

His heart aches at the fact that he won’t be witness to Ciri growing up, or be witness to her curiosities and skill. 

Geralt looks at him from where he’s knelt, hugging Ciri to his chest and raises an arm in invitation.

Jaskier smiles, and goes to brush Roach down.

~~

The present comes three days later, when they’re lodging in an inn, headed north.

Jaskier wakes with a yell, Melitele’s voice echoing through his head, coaxing him back into her arms, the feel of Death’s welcoming smile giving him chills… He startles, yanking his wrist away from where it rested in Geralt’s hands.

“What the fuck!” Ciri looks up from her bed on the other side of the small room lit by moonlight, Geralt looking sheepishly down at the bracelet, unclasped and waiting, held between his fingers.

“I, hmm,” Geralt growls, looking up at Jaskier with his brows furrowed, “I wanted to give you this." 

_This_ is a delicate chain of leaves, a rose charm hanging off it. "The lady— the lady didn’t have any dandelions, so I—” he quickly clasps it around Jaskier’s wrist and lays down, tugging Jaskier by the back of his shirt (another one of Geralt’s) to get him to recline again on their shared bed. Ciri turns, burrowing under blankets to go back to sleep.

Again, _what the fuck?_ Geralt, who’d told him to quit wasting money, was buying him _jewelry_ now?

He supposes exceptions can be made for dying men.

His wound fucking throbs, and the thin gold chain is heavy on his wrist.

~~

Jaskier’s feet fucking ache, days of traveling is not best suited for those near death, apparently. In fact, his entire fucking body aches, and each step feels like he’s one step closer to his grave.

…Perhaps it’s not as bad as dying, but he’s in _pain_ and he’s a _bard_ — he’s allowed to be dramatic.

“Jaskier.” Fuck, not this shit again.

“Look, on the mountain— it’s fine, I get it,” he says, tripping over his own feet in exhaustion. It’s not new, he’s spent two decades tripping over himself in exhaustion behind the witcher, “I’m a shit-shoveler, you want me to fuck off, I _know_ —”

“You’re not.”

“ _Geralt_ ,” he chides, pretending that he’s okay, this is all fine. 

Geralt hums, approaching him as Jaskier backs away, “Fuck, I’m sorry, okay? Just please—” He yelps as he’s lifted up like a bride in Geralt’s arms (and fuck, isn’t _that_ a thought, to be Geralt’s bride? He can’t count how many days he used to spend dreaming of being such a thing). His own arms are wrapped tight around Geralt’s neck, dreading for when he’ll be dropped. His wound aches, bleeds through his chemise. 

“What the fuck’re you doing?” Jaskier yelps, body swaying with each of Geralt’s steps.

Geralt hums. “I can smell your pain; relax, Jaskier.“

” _Ha_ , right, fuck that!“ his voice is a bit manic as he clings, body tense. "Remember the last time I was hurt and you picked me up? You dropped me because you thought I was being too loud, fuck if I’m falling for that again.” Geralt’s grip around him tightens.

“I won’t drop you… ever.” An odd promise, but nope— Jaskier’s not buying into it. He stays tense, clung to Geralt’s body as they walk.

But Geralt’s pace is steady, and Jaskier is _oh-so tired_. Sleep comes to him easily, and he goes limp in Geralt’s arms.

Ciri snorts and rolls her eyes from where she’s sat upon Roach. True, both of them are brave, good souls, but they’re the dumbest bunch she’s ever seen.

~~

They arrive in Posada a couple weeks later.

Ciri’s left at the inn with clear instructions on what to do if someone breaks in, a knife hidden on her person anywhere Geral could hide one.

Geralt must’ve wanted to bring back good memories of their first meeting, for they’re in that same bar in the Valley of Flowers. It’s beautiful this time of year, a good place as any for the final step in Jaskier’s life.

“Uhm, can I buy you lunch?” Geralt’s awkward with formality, body set tense as if he’s readying for a fight.

Jaskier hums in a fun turn of events and Geralt smiles a bit at that. _Good_. He’s losing time and he wants every happy memory possible to take with him into the afterlife.

Two ales, a board of cheese and fresh bread are brought to that lone table in the back corner, where Jaskier had earned his first coin for his music. It’s still in his lute case, decades later, a memoir of hope that he fears he would’ve long since lost without it. Jaskiers praises the food like it’s a meal fit for a king because it’s honest-to-Gods delicious.

Geralt grins a bit at that, a crooked thing that makes Jaskier _ache_.

“So— hm, the weather’s nice, isn’t it?” Jaskier squints at him, rethinking his theory that he’s about to die to thinking Geralt’s fucking possessed.

“Yeah… suppose it is. Say, Geralt, what’s my favourite color?”

“That’s no way to test for a doppler, Jaskier and—” the witcher hums, biting into his bread, a… _a flush on his face?_ “It’s the amber of— of my eyes. And my favorite color are the blues of yours." 

Jaskier stares at him, mouth agape, eyes wide in shock. Was that a _flirt_? 

The food, the small talk— fuck he’d even asked him out, how’d he miss—

He stands, chair tipping back as he slam his palms on the table.

"Are we on a _date_ right now?” He practically _screams_ it, and in a turn of nostalgic events, Jaskier feels stale bread hit his back and a brief _shut up_ from someone behind them. Geralt narrows his eyes at them in a threat before turning back to Jaskier.

“Yes? I thought, _hm_ — you wanted me? Like this.”

Jaskier’s laugh is as incredulous as it is loud, “Of course I fucking want you! Not like you return the feeling, you made that especially clear on the fucking mountain— _fuck_! I thought I was _dying_!" 

Geralt’s brows furrow at that. "Why? You’re healing well." 

"As if you’d act so fucking nice to me unless I was on my last few days! Do you even _know_ yourself!” Oh, he’s fucking _boiling_ with rage— “Geralt of Rivia, friend of humanity, and hater of one _Jaskier the Bard!_ " 

"I don’t hate you." 

"Oh no, I suppose you abandoning me, yelling at me, despising my fucking existence was your love language, was it?" 

He huffs as he sits down, staring at the cheese like it’s cursed his (unborn) firstborn. "I thought I was fixing it,” Geralt mutters. “I thought I was being… good. To you. When I found you after the mountain.”

Jaskier chances a glance up at him, heart shriveling at how small the witcher looks. “I don’t understand why you even saved me— I thought you’d be happy with my death." 

Geralt breathes in, sharp as if Jaskier’s words have physically hurt him. "Imagining you lost to me forever, I was… hm. I was scared. That you wouldn’t wake up and I wouldn’t see your— your eyes. And hear your voice. And that was when…”

Jaskier’s breath hitches at the words, stupidly hopeful that they are true. “When what?”

“When I realized I needed you.” He looks up at him, and amber eyes bore into his own, looking straight into his soul and leaving Jaskier feeling _oh-so exposed._ “That I loved you.”

“ _Fuck_.”

Geralt grunts in agreement.

“I— I mean, I love you, too, you must know, I’ve loved you since I set eyes upon you in this shitty tavern,” Jaskier ignores this dirty look the barkeep glares at him, “but Gods, Geralt…”

“I know. Lot to make up for.”

Jaskier nods, downing the last of his ale. 

“Damn right.” He sets his mug down. “But for now… buy me another drink, Geralt, and we’ll see where this evening goes.”

Geralt gives him his crooked grin, calls for another ale, and they chatter till the sun begins to set.

Above them, Melitele smiles and pats Her back for giving Jaskier just a little longer.

**Author's Note:**

> written for a prompt fill on tumblr! 
> 
> lemme know what you thought, comments make my giddy <333
> 
> Beta'd by my dear friend, aegir-emblem!!
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr (@persony-pepper)!](https://persony-pepper.tumblr.com)


End file.
